


After Dark

by sherlockholmesconsultingvampire



Series: After Dark [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Blood Drinking, Blow Jobs, Injury, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Smut, Vamp!John, Vampire AU, Vampire John, Vamplock, mildly dub con blood drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-02
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-09-27 23:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10055948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockholmesconsultingvampire/pseuds/sherlockholmesconsultingvampire
Summary: After a week of observing the paradox that was John Watson, Sherlock had pulled out his laptop, done some research on his observations and, after repeating the line ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true’, he’d come to the conclusion that John was not quite human.He’d had a minor mental breakdown, started smoking again and, after deciding that John was not a threat to him, he’d got on with his life.





	1. Chapter 1

They’d been living together for a little over a week when Sherlock had figured it out.

It was just a few little things that didn’t quite add up. Like how John didn’t eat. He drank an inordinate amount of tea, but Sherlock could swear that he’d not seen a morsel of food pass John’s lips since the day they met.

He didn’t seem to feel the cold either. Even though John had moved in late into January, and the flat was freezing even with the fire burning, he never complained that he was cold. He didn’t wear pyjamas in bed, (not that Sherlock had snuck into his room the fourth night to look for his hidden cigarettes and got an eyeful of tanned chest,) and the bed covers were nothing more than a thin sheet, even though Sherlock knew there was a thick duvet folded neatly and stuffed in the bottom of his wardrobe.

He had amazing reflexes too. He’d demonstrated this when Sherlock had been working on an experiment at the kitchen table, and he’d swung his arm out, accidentally knocking a beaker of acid to the floor. Only he hadn’t heard it smash. He’d looked down to where the acid should have be eating through the linoleum, to see John crouched down beside him, outstretched hand holding the unbroken beaker, and eyes rolling fondly as he stood and put the beaker back onto the table with a sigh of, “Try to be more careful, yeah?”

To most people, these things would have probably gone unnoticed, as the majority of the population didn’t seem to possess the metal capability to _see_ , let alone _understand_ what was going on in the world around them. But, as with any interesting crime scene, it was always the small details that were the most important.

So, after a week of observing the paradox that was John Watson, Sherlock had pulled out his laptop, done some research on his observations and, after repeating the line ‘ _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be true_ ’, he’d come to the conclusion that John was not quite human. He’d had a minor mental breakdown, started smoking again and, after reasoning that John was not a threat to him, he’d got on with his life.

John sort of knew that Sherlock knew in a roundabout way. He didn’t think that Sherlock knew that he was a vampire, exactly, but he knew that Sherlock was aware of his odd habits. It wasn’t really the kind of thing one could bring up in casual conversation -‘ _Sherlock, we’re out of tea. Also, you know I’m a vampire, right?_ '- and like many things in 221b Baker Street, they never spoke about it.

It just sort of was what it was.

So every few nights, when John would leave the flat after dark and return a short time later with a slight glow to his skin, Sherlock never said anything about it.

  
x

  
It was on one of these nights a few months later that Sherlock received a text from a seemingly frustrated, and often confused Detective Inspector Lestrade.

**Dead woman in club bathroom, fourth in as many days, trail’s gone cold - GL**

Sherlock read the text and sighed, typing back a quick reply.

**COD? - SH**

He caught John in his peripheral vision as the blond shrugged on his black Haversack coat at the top of the stairs, and he stood and walked to the doorway, a smile gracing his lips.

“Ah, John, good. We’re going out. Lestrade has a case for us.”

John turned as he fiddled with the sleeves of the coat distractedly, and furrowed his brow. “Can I meet you there? I’m on my way out.”

Sherlock’s lips tightened into a thin line and he sighed through his nose. The text alert drew his attention back to his phone, and his eyes lit up when he read the message.

**Victims were all exsanguinated and killed at the scene. No blood on or near the bodies. Get here soon, can’t hold the scene for long -GL**

The next text was an address.

“No time, John. Come on, we’re needed.”

“You’re needed, you mean.”

Sherlock scoffed, pulling the Belstaff coat over his shoulders and flipping the collar up around his neck.

John tried not to laugh as Sherlock spun on his heel dramatically and ran down the stairs, the coat whirling around his legs, making him look like a creature of the dark from an old horror movie.

 _And yet, I’m the one with the fangs_ , he thought with a rueful smile.

  
x

  
The crime scene was like any other, with flashing lights, people hovering around the tape gossiping about what was going on, and one particularly annoying forensic investigator trampling all over the scene and destroying anything that could have been useful as evidence.

“This is _my_ crime scene,” he whined, his nasal voice making Sherlock’s teeth itch, “and I don’t need you here prancing around spouting nonsense...”

“So tell me, Anderson, how was it that this woman was killed here, exsanguinated, all without a drop of blood anywhere to be found?”

Anderson’s face twisted in a murderous expression. “If you’d leave and let me do my job perhaps I could find out!”

Sherlock laughed sardonically. “Please. You couldn’t find your shoes if they were on your feet.”

Lestrade chose that moment to step between the two men, shooting Anderson a pointed look as he ushered a glaring Sherlock through a door inside the club. John followed behind, trying not to laugh at the outraged look on Anderson’s face, when his eyes flicked down to the face of the woman that lay sprawled on the dirty bathroom floor of the men’s room.

His stomach dropped, and it felt as though all the air had been sucked out of the room.

Sherlock had started to walk towards the body, crouching down to examine the strange, bloodless wounds on her neck, and John didn’t miss the quick glance that was thrown his way. For that one second exchange, Sherlock seemed just as shaken as John felt, and he swallowed and cleared his throat before standing and scanning the room. His eyes narrowed as they fell on one of the large mirrors above the sinks, to a small spot of something dark on the glass.

Lestrade moved to stand next to Sherlock, following his line of sight and trying to see what Sherlock saw, and then he finally spotted it, hardly visible on the corner of the mucky glass: a dot of blood, about a centimetre wide, not yet dried.

“Anderson!” John heard Lestrade shout, and suddenly the room started to fill with people. John saw Sherlock press a gloved fingertip to the sticky blood when Lestrade’s back was turned, and then Sherlock was walking towards him, his eyes filled with concern.

“Are you okay?” he heard, his eyes moving between Sherlock and the body on the ground. He squeezed them shut when an image of Sherlock in the victim’s place filled his mind, and he took a deep, shuddering breath, and tried to shake the thought from his head.

“John?” Sherlock spoke again gently, a hand reaching to his shoulder and squeezing reassuringly.

John swallowed and nodded, his mouth suddenly dry as he tried to speak. He coughed and nodded again, his expression only a fraction more convincing this time. “Yeah, I’m fine. I just... I suppose I’m just tired.”

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, ignoring the look of distaste from Anderson, and clasped his hands behind his back. “The blood won’t be from her, and I suspect it won’t be from the killer either. It was placed there for a reason. Possibly another victim. I assume you found nothing at the previous crime scenes?”

Lestrade grimaced, his fingers twitching, obviously craving one of the cigarettes he kept hidden in his inner coat pocket. “No, but now we know what to look for, we can revisit the crime scenes, maybe find something else.”

Sherlock nodded once, turning and making his way to the door, John by his side. “Text me when you get the results back from the lab,” he called over his shoulder, pushing his way through the doorway and walking to the back exit of the club, wanting to avoid the crowds out the front.

When they stepped out into the cool night air, Sherlock stopped, pulling off his right glove and turning the index finger of it inside out, before putting it carefully into his coat pocket. He turned to John to speak, when a faint scuffle of shoes on concrete caught both their attention.

“Stay here," Sherlock mumbled as he started to walk towards the sound, his steps quiet and measured as he stopped at the entrance to the back alley. John’s ears picked up the far away sound of a bullet clicking into place in a chamber, and before he could yell for Sherlock to get down, he felt something solid hit him in the chest. He looked down, confusion deepening the lines around his eyes as dark red started to bloom across the front of his shirt, and he grunted as pain started to radiate through him, blurring his vision, and then his knees gave out beneath him.

“John!”

He could hear the sound of rapid footsteps getting closer, and then Sherlock was on the ground next to him, gentle hands moving him to lie flat and lifting the shirt to see the shine of blood stained metal where the bullet was still deeply embedded. Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath was loud to John, even over the blood rushing in his ears, and he felt his own breath stutter at the look of helplessness on the detective’s face.

“What do I do?” he stammered, his fingers clutching the saturated fabric of John’s shirt.

John blinked owlishly, his hand reaching to tug at Sherlock’s scarf. “Pressure, ” he grunted, a guttural noise of pain working it’s way from his throat as Sherlock pulled the scarf free and pressed it down hard over the wound.

“Keep it there, _fuck_. Can you see the bullet?”

“Yes, I can see it," Sherlock nodded, eyes wide and his voice thick with panic.

“Sherlock, I need...” John’s head fell back against the rough surface of the floor as a sharp spasm of pain bled through him. “I need you to get the bullet out...”

Sherlock inhaled shakily, his eyes fixed on the scarf in his hands, slowly darkening with John’s blood. He lifted the material up, seeing the wound quickly filling with blood again, and pressed down harder. “How? I don’t have...”

“The lock pick, use the lock pick... in your coat. Please Sherlock, do it now...” John’s voice was strained and breathless, and Sherlock knew he had no other choice.

He pulled the case from the inner pocket of the Belstaff, and removed one of the longer picks with trembling hands. Dread filled his mind as he took the scarf away and lifted the shirt higher and, after a moment of consideration, he shrugged the coat and jacket off onto the ground. He unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, rolled his sleeves up, and took a deep, steadying breath.

The moment of the metal pushing in alongside the bullet seemed to last a lifetime. Pain flooded through his nerves, and John could do nothing but grit his teeth and hold still as Sherlock’s shaking fingers managed to get the tip of the pick underneath the bullet, and with a deft twist of his wrist, it finally came free and fell to the floor with a metallic clink. Sherlock’s whole body seemed to relax for only a brief moment, before looking to John in askance of his next move.

With a stuttered breath, John tried to push himself to his elbows, only to have Sherlock’s hands pressing him back down with a stern expression. John exhaled sharply, his eyes closing as a wave of nausea crashed over him. He could feel his muscles weakening, and a warm trickle of blood as the gunshot wound continued to bleed. His hunger was spiking with the blood loss, and without fresh blood, he couldn’t heal. He knew what he needed, but he had no idea how to ask Sherlock for it. They’d never actually spoken about his ‘condition’, but they both seemed to know where they stood with it. At least they did until that moment.

There was nothing for it.

He took a deep breath, and grunted when the effort made his head swim with pain.

“Sherlock, I need... I need to heal, and I can’t do that without... you know.”

Sherlock’s heart seemed to skip a beat, and his mouth did something that John would usually describe as endearing under different circumstances. As it were, he wasn’t sure if the man could even hear him, let alone if he was willing to find someone for John to feed on.

“Sherlock?” he pressed, his hand lifting to Sherlock’s wrist, trying to pull the detective out of whatever part of his mind he seemed to be stuck in. Sherlock blinked rapidly and John was convinced he could see the moment that his brain came back online.

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath, eyes widening as he looked down at John’s fingers around his wrist. His breathing quickened at the implication.

“Yes,” he muttered, “of course, because you’re... you, and you need... that. Right.”

John’s brow furrowed in concern at the inarticulate words.

“Sherlock, are you okay with this? I understand if it’s too much...”

Sherlock looked affronted for a moment, the small crinkle between his brow making an appearance. “Of course not, it’s... not a problem.”

Pale fingers clenched, and Sherlock extended his arm out, his wrist held close to John’s face. John’s eyes widened in horror at the offer, and he pushed Sherlock away with an incredulous look.

“Sherlock, Christ, no! I didn’t mean for you to... Jesus, I was asking you to find someone else, not...” A light blush spread over John’s face, and he found he couldn’t look Sherlock in the eyes.

Because Sherlock had just offered him exactly what he’d been wanting since the moment they’d met.

And now, with the pale, delicate skin of Sherlock’s wrist so close to his lips, the blood visibly pumping under the skin, and the intoxicating scent that clung to him, John was struggling to hold back from his desire.

He turned his head away when he felt his fangs descend, and his vision sharpened as his pupils dilated, covering the iris completely and turning his eyes black in appearance.

“Why?”

The voice was so quiet, John barely heard it even with his enhanced senses.

“What?” John muttered, keeping his face turned out of Sherlock’s view. He couldn’t bear for Sherlock to see him like this, to see his curious expression turn to disgust when he truly saw what John was.

“Why?” Sherlock repeated. John had never heard him sound this way, so small, so broken, so much emotion poured into one small word. “What’s wrong with me? Am I so repulsive to you that you’d choose a stranger to save your life over a man you call your friend?”

John laughed humorlessly, wincing at the pull of pain it caused in his chest. “You really don’t get it, do you? You are anything but repulsive to me, Sherlock. And _that’s_ the problem.”

Sherlock started to speak, only to stop himself with a grunt of frustration when John still refused to face him.

“I... I don’t understand, John," he admitted. “John, for God’s sake, _look_ at me.”

John pointedly started to get to his feet, needing to get away from Sherlock, but he barely made it two steps before his knees gave way and he stumbled, Sherlock catching him before he fell.

He tried to push Sherlock away, but in his weakened state, Sherlock was much stronger than him, and the detective’s grip tightened around him and pulled him down to sit against the wall of the club.

With his head hung low, Sherlock couldn’t see the glint of fangs that grazed John’s bottom lip, and in turn John couldn’t see the moment that Sherlock placed his hand on a rough part of the wall, and swiped the heel of it roughly over the sharp stone. John’s head snapped up abruptly at the scent of what he craved the most, eyes wide and dark, and completely focused on the dark red blood that was quickly filling the cut and running down Sherlock’s wrist to drip steadily on the ground.

Sherlock swallowed as he finally saw John for what he was, _beautiful, so beautiful_ , and, taking a deep breath, he pressed the cut to John’s lips firmly, dexterous fingers curling around his lightly stubbled jaw, holding him in place and stroking.

John’s whole body jolted fiercely as the first drop of Sherlock’s blood hit his tongue. Hands raised to grip at the bare skin of Sherlock’s forearm, fingertips surely bruising the pale skin, and his fangs dug in deep, drawing a hiss of pain from Sherlock, and a fresh flow of blood to spurt down his throat.

It was extraordinary, like nothing he’d ever tasted before.

Sweet as the honey Sherlock liked to put on his toast and in his tea.

Musky, like the scent of his skin when he’d been on the sofa all day in his pyjamas and not showered.

And smokey, like bonfire toffee and real wood logs burning on an open fireplace.

All these things that shouldn’t work together blended so perfectly to create something so definitively _Sherlock_ , and John knew in that moment Sherlock would have to stop him, because there was nothing in this world that could tear John away from the taste of such perfection.

Sherlock held resolutely still, taking deep, measured breaths and stroking the fingers of his free hand through the soft, greying strands of John’s hair. He winced when he felt John’s teeth sink deeper into the torn flesh, and after a glance at the new scar on John’s chest where the bullet had been, he tightened his grip in John’s hair and tugged lightly.

“John, I think that might be enough now,” he breathed, the words coming out slow and a little slurred. John growled, his hands tightening on Sherlock’s wrist, grinding the bones together painfully. Sherlock’s gasp was weak, his vision started to blur, and then darkness took over.


	2. Chapter 2

In ancient Greek mythology, ambrosia is often known as the food or drink of the Greek gods, often depicted to bestow longevity or immortality to whoever consumed it. It was thought to have been carried to the gods in Olympus by doves, so it may have been considered in the Homeric tradition as a kind of divine exhalation of the Earth.

Some referred to it as ‘immortal food’, a reference that, after being so lucky to have found such a delicacy, John now fully understood. Because that’s what Sherlock’s blood was to him. The sweetest indulgence, pure euphoria. John was certain that if he could never have this again, he would die.

That was the moment he realised he had to stop.

He felt hands in his hair, tugging, trying to pull him away, and he couldn’t stop the deep growl that rumbled against Sherlock’s skin, nor the way his own fingers tightened, needing just one more second, one more mouthful of this _utter bliss._

The body in his arms went slack, and John forced himself to pull back, unlatching his fangs from the ravaged skin of Sherlock’s hand and licking over the wound, encouraging it to heal with his saliva.

His head fell back against the wall with a sated sigh, and he blinked up at the London night sky, counting stars that hadn’t been discernible before, but now appeared as apparent and bright as the moon to his eyes.

Sherlock’s blood was _phenomenal._

_Oh God, Sherlock..._

His mind seemed to jolt back into place at the thought. Clear, cobalt blue eyes looked down to where Sherlock was slumped in his lap, unconscious, his skin a sickly shade of white under the moonlight.

_What have I done?_

Warm fingers reached to feel the faint thrumming of a pulse at Sherlock’s neck, and John breathed a sigh of relief. He checked his watch, the hands telling him it was just after three in the morning. Good, that meant there wouldn’t be too many people about now, so with a bit of luck he should be able to get Sherlock home unnoticed. He shifted against the wall, one arm moving underneath the bend of Sherlock’s knees, the other stretched around his back, and lifted the man easily as he stood, holding him close against his chest. He walked to the entrance of the alley, listened for the sounds of anyone nearby and, finding no danger, carried Sherlock back to Baker Street in his arms.

  
x

  
When Sherlock woke, it was to a pounding headache and a cold rush of water being poured down his incredibly dry throat. He swallowed reflexively, lifting his hand to take the glass and tipping it up until the last drop hit his tongue. He tried to sit up, only for a throb of pain to knock him back down again, and he belatedly realised he was in his bedroom, lying down on top of the covers, John at his side.

_John._

His first thought should have been for his own health, for the reasoning of why he’d woken on his bed with the pressure of a five tonne truck parked on his skull. But all he could focus on was the last sight he remembered, back in the alley, of John bleeding out against the wall, and then fangs sliding into the sensitive skin of his hand.

A twinge shot up his arm at the memory, and he lifted the hand in question to study the marks John had left. There was a ragged scar where he’d scraped the skin over the stone wall, and two clearer circular marks in the middle, from John’s fangs.

_John..._

Sherlock’s eyes slid back to the familiar shape of John next to him, who seemed to have been watching him intently, concern deepening the lines of his face.

“Are you okay? You were gone for a minute there,” John asked softly, his fingers clenching and unclenching tightly in his lap, as if he wanted to reach out but didn’t dare. Sherlock watched the movements of his hands, the muscles under the skin, completely enthralled for a moment before he tried to sit up again. This time, John did reach out, and the gentle pressure of a hand pushed him back down insistently. “No, stay down, you’ve... you’ve lost quite a lot of blood. You should be in the hospital, but... I...”

Sherlock swallowed down the wave of nausea and blinked a few times, trying to clear his head of the fog that seemed to envelop his mind. “Why aren’t I then? Why did you bring me back here?”

John’s expression turned lost for a moment, as if he were trying to figure out the answer to the same question. He huffed out a sigh, and lifted a hand to run shaking fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. Christ, this is all so fucked up, one minute we were outside the back of the club, then someone shoots me in the fucking chest, and then... I don’t know what happened, Sherlock. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t control myself, I’d never... God, I never meant to do that to you. Afterwards, I picked you up, and carried you back here.”

Hesitant eyes met Sherlock’s, and John’s voice shook as he spoke. “I can... if you want to go to the hospital, it’s fine, but, if you like, I can help.”

Sherlock’s nose crinkled in his confusion, and John had to resist the urge to lean in and kiss the skin until it smoothed again.

_Not the time, Watson._

“What can you do? I don’t understand,” he admitted, his voice strained and weak. John pushed down his guilt, there’d be plenty of time for that later.

He seemed to struggle with his thoughts for a moment. When he spoke, it was with an air of determination. “I know we’ve never talked about this before, about... what I am. I think that’s always been our main problem, leaving things unsaid, but I want you to do something for me now, Sherlock. I want you to tell me what I am. What you think I am.”

 _Beautiful. Extraordinary. Fascinating._ “Vampire,” Sherlock muttered.

John nodded, his eyes refusing to meet Sherlock’s. “One of the perks of being what I am, is rapid healing. The downside to that, is that I need blood to do so. To survive. You saw to that last night. You healed me, and if you let me, I’d like to do the same for you.”

Sherlock’s mouth opened on a sharp exhale, his eyes widening as his misinterpreted John’s words. “I don’t... Would I become like you?”

“No! God, no Sherlock, I’m not explaining this very well. What I meant, was that vampire blood has healing properties for humans, and if I were to give you some of mine...”

“Then I’d be healed,” Sherlock finished, considering the offer and its implications. “Would there be any other side effects?”

John cleared his throat awkwardly, picking at an imaginary thread on his jeans. “Nothing serious. You may find your senses to be temporarily heightened, and your... libido might become a little more... active.”

Sherlock’s head tilted, reminding John of a confused puppy, and he inhaled a long breath, before closing his mouth and swallowing. “I don’t think... that will be much of a problem,” he said quietly.

John quirked a brow at him doubtfully.

“It’s never really been active before, I doubt that will change now,” Sherlock clarified, his weak voice tinged with annoyance.

John sighed, wishing he could say the same. He’d been attracted to Sherlock since the day they’d first met, and had even gone as far as to test the waters, letting Sherlock know in a not-so-subtle manner that he was interested, but he’d been shot down. He’d been disappointed, had a few guilty wanks in the shower whilst fantasing about his ‘married to his work’ flatmate, and got over it.

At least he thought he had.

But since last night, since that first drop of blood hit his tongue and sent sparks of pleasure down his spine, all his previous feelings for Sherlock had returned tenfold.

Unless of course, they’d never really left, and he’d just learned to repress them. Right now, that scenario seemed much more concievable.

So hearing Sherlock tell him again that he’d never been interested in sex before, and probably never would be, was like a punch to the gut. Because after last night, it was all John could think about.

The clearing of a throat pulled John from his thoughts, and he turned to meet glazed cerulean eyes.

“If you’re done with your inner monologue, I believe I’m in need of medical attention.”

John tried to ignore the pang of disappointment. “I’ll help you downstairs then, we should get you there as soon as possible.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, though there was a hint of pain behind his exasperation.

“What?”

“You are a doctor, are you not? I should think that qualifies.”

John’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline, and he huffed a breath of disbelief. “You... you want to...”

“I suppose so, if anything it will be an interesting experiment.” Sherlock’s voice was getting more and more breathless with every word, and John knew that he didn’t have time to argue about why that sentence was a bit not good.

“Okay,” John muttered, more to himself than to Sherlock. “Okay, so do you want me to... talk you through it, or just sort of...”

“I assume my part in this is rather passive, so I’ll trust your guidance,” he replied with a hint of a smile.

“Okay. Can you... are you able to sit up a little? Just... yeah, just lean against the headboard. Perfect. Okay.”

He took a moment then, allowing himself a few calming breaths as he looked at the man in front of him. Sherlock stared back at him with calm, trusting eyes, even after what he’d done to him just the night before. They were in this mess because of John, because he’d been unable to control himself, and he owed it to Sherlock to put things right.

With that in mind, he lifted his own wrist to his mouth, extended his fangs, and bit down deep.

Blood rushed into his mouth, and he heard a sharp intake of breath as he pulled back. A small rivulet ran down his chin, and he swiped his thumb over it, sucking it into his mouth to clean the skin. The blood still held a hint of Sherlock, not yet fully merged with his own, and he groaned at the taste.

When he looked back at Sherlock, he was surprised to see a look of utter fascination on the other man’s face. He’d always been so careful to hide this part of himself away from others. Even those who knew what he was hadn’t see him this way, fangs bared and eyes dark, and for some reason it felt incredibly intimate that Sherlock was seeing him now.

He swallowed down the lump in his throat and extended his arm, holding his wrist out in front of Sherlock. Trembling hands curled around the proffered arm, and he shivered at the feel of plush lips pressing against his skin and _sucking_.

John’s head fell back with a shuddering sigh, and he could hear someone moaning, unsure if the sound was coming from Sherlock or himself. He felt a surge of possessiveness then, and something like a purr worked its way passed his lips. Sherlock whimpered in response, and John tangled his fingers through dark curls and pressed lightly, keeping Sherlock in place until he knew he’d had enough.

With shaking hands, John pulled Sherlock back, and was met with sharp, lust blown eyes. The sickly pallor of Sherlock’s skin had gone, and was replaced with a dark flush that spread high over each perfect cheekbone and down his throat. Sherlock seemed to be just as affected as John felt, and they were both panting, unable to tear away from each other’s gaze. Sherlock’s face drew closer, and suddenly there were warm, soft lips pressing against his own, the delicate push of a tongue passed his lips, and then Sherlock pulled back with a gasp.

John felt unable to do anything in that moment, as Sherlock stared at him with such a look of revelation, quickly morphing into one of horror.

John did the only thing he could think to do. He cleared his throat, checked Sherlock’s pulse with as much detachment as he could, and left for his own room. He did his best to ignore the erection that was pressing painfully against the zip of his jeans, but when he heard the deliciously breathy sounds that Sherlock was making in the room below his, his own name being whispered in that deep baritone, he couldn’t help but take himself in hand, and stroke himself to completion with Sherlock’s name on his lips.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some annoying reason my spellchecker isn't working for this chapter, so I apologise if this is full of glaring mistakes. Feel free to point any out if you see them (:

Morning sunlight filtered gently through the curtains, bathing the room in bright orange, and Sherlock woke up with a groan. His head was throbbing slightly, no doubt from the events of the day before, and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heels of his hands, catching a glimpse of the new scar on the right.

His breathing hitched as parts of last night flickered to the forefront of his mind, and he gasped as he felt the ghost of a kiss on his lips. Shaking fingers brushed over the tingling skin, and he flushed when a shiver of pleasure ran through him at the touch. He sat up in his bed, the covers falling down to just past his hips and exposing his bare chest to the cold of the room.

Wait.

When had he got undressed? Where were his clothes from last night? If he had taken them off, why hadn’t he put his pyjamas on after? He never slept naked.

He pulled the covers higher when the chill spread goosebumps over his skin, and that’s when he felt it. A cold, sticky wetness on his lower abdomen and thighs, the evidence of what he’d done when John had left for his room last night.

And then it all came back to him.

Last night.

He’d _kissed_ John.

And, as if it wasn’t bad enough that he’d kissed his very heterosexual vampire flatmate after drinking his blood, he’d got _hard,_ thrown his clothes across the room, and then wanked to the memory of it like a horny teenager.

_Fuck._

What the hell was John going to say about this?

  
x

  
It was just after noon when John finally woke to the sound of the doorbell downstairs. He climbed out of bed with a yawn, stretched onto his tiptoes, and pulled his dressing gown on from the back of the bedroom door. When he opened the door and climbed down the few stairs onto the first floor of the flat, he wasn’t surprised to see that Sherlock wasn’t up yet, given the time they’d gone to sleep last night, but he was a little concerned about what would happen when the detective did finally rouse.

He imagined it would be a little awkward in the flat at first. After what Sherlock had told him about his lack of interest in sex, to him then kissing John the way he had and then... John felt too guilty to even think the words. He knew it wasn’t Sherlock, not his own desires at least. It was the blood. It had affected them both quite strongly after and he wanted to tell Sherlock that he didn’t blame him for his actions, nor did it have to mean anything if Sherlock didn’t want it to.

But John did. And that was the problem.

Because though his actions were in part due to the effect of Sherlock’s blood, those feelings had already been there before. He couldn’t say the same for Sherlock, though, and he didn’t know if that made the whole thing better or worse.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and opened the front door, his eyes taking in the rough appearance of Greg on the step raising his hand to knock again.

 _Fucking hell._ After everything that had happened, he’d completely forgotten about the case.

“I’ve been trying to bloody reach you two for hours, why weren’t either of you answering your phones?” the DI growled harshly, pushing past John and taking the stairs two at a time.

“They must both be on silent. What’s wrong, what happened?” John asked, trying to keep up with his shorter stride.

“We found more blood outside the back of the club, the way you and Sherlock left. I thought one of you had been bloody stabbed or something. Are you both okay?”

John’s heart skipped a beat, and he was glad Greg wasn’t facing him when he spoke. “Yeah, we’re both fine. Did you send a sample to the lab to get it checked?”

“Not yet. Anderson took a sample of it but it won’t get checked until tomorrow. Where’s Sherlock?” he asked, his brow creasing at the empty living room.

“He’s, ah, still in bed I think. Do you need to speak to him? It’s rare that he sleeps for this long so I didn’t really want to wake him.”

Greg sighed, a flash of relief on his face. “It can wait, I suppose. Get him to call me when he wakes up, yeah?”

“Yeah, thanks Greg.” John smiled, the expression turning into a worried frown as soon as the DI turned and left down the stairs. He moved to the kitchen table and sat, his chin resting on one hand as he tried to think of a way to get the blood sample back from Anderson. It would be his blood, maybe a bit of Sherlock’s too, and there would be no way to explain that to Greg without telling him the truth.

That absolutely wasn’t an option.

The sound of the latch clicking free on Sherlock’s bedroom door was loud to his ears, and he closed his eyes, took a couple of steadying breaths, and smiled lightly when a fully dressed Sherlock walked past him to the kettle.

“Morning, Sherlock. You okay?”

Sherlock “hmmn’d” in reply and scowled at the empty kettle, lifting it to the sink to fill with water, then moving it back to boil.

“Any... side effects?”

There was a loud crack of a mug hitting the counter a little too hard, and John winced as he watched a flush spread along the back of Sherlock’s neck.

“Don’t do that, John. Playing dumb doesn’t suit you,” he snapped, his back straightening as his hands fisted at his sides, refusing to turn and meet John’s gaze.

John huffed in indignation. “I’m not playing anything, Sherlock. What we did last night is not something to be taken lightly.”

“Oh for God’s sake, it was just a kiss. I’m sure you’ve kissed plenty of people before, why does it matter? It didn’t mean anything anyway,” he added quietly, a hint of resentment in his voice.

“What? Sherlock, I’m talking about the blood, you idiot,” John shouted, his temper flaring up at Sherlock’s mood. Sherlock turned and glared at the insult. “I’ve never done that before, and I...” he trailed off with a shaky sigh, and lowered his voice. “I just wanted to know if you were okay, that’s all.”

Sherlock at least had the decency to look a little apologetic, and he cleared his throat and nodded. “Yes, I feel fine.” He threw the cracked cup into the bin, and pulled down another, starting two cups of tea. Quietly, he added, “Thank you, John.”

John heard him clearly enough, and laughed bitterly. “You shouldn’t be thanking me, I almost killed you last night. People are supposed to be afraid of monsters like me, but you knew before last night didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question. “Yet you don’t seem afraid. You saw me for what I was, and you suffered for it, yet you’re still here, making me tea like everything’s fine.”

Sherlock spun on him, his eyebrows drawn together in affronted confusion. “You’re not a monster, John. Yes, you could have killed me last night. But you didn’t. There’s no reason for me to fear you. I know you have no intention of hurting me.”

His words sounded genuine, and John looked at Sherlock in wonder. “I... thank you, Sherlock. That means a lot, really.”

A small smile of understanding passed over each of their faces, and Sherlock handed over John’s tea, taking his own to the leather armchair and sitting down with a sigh.

John drank his tea in silence, allowing them to have a few rare minutes of peace before he moved to his tattered chair and told Sherlock of Lestrade’s visit, and about the blood found in the back alley.

Sherlock grimaced and bit his lower lip, huffing a breath through his nose. “We need to get that sample from the Yard. Shouldn’t be too difficult, if it’s in Anderson’s possession. I’ll go today. You said that Lestrade wanted to discuss something anyway, so he won’t question why I’m there.”

“Do you want me to go with you?”

“No, it’ll be easier on my own. It won’t take long,” he said, standing up and fastening the button on his jacket. “If I go now, I should be able to get it whilst Anderson’s at lunch.”

“How do you know when he eats lunch?”

Sherlock smirked. “He’s been having his lunch at two every day he’s been there. I don’t want to run the risk of having to interact with him. Bad for brainwork.”

And with that, Sherlock took his Belstaff from the coat hook, threw it around his shoulders, and left for Scotland Yard. He returned an hour and a half later with the blood sample, another one of Lestrade’s badges, and a shit-eating grin.

  
x

  
Things seemed to return to normal at Baker Street during the next week. There were no new leads on the case, other than a phonecall from Greg confirming that the blood on the mirror had been from the victim previous to the club, and Anderson had managed to lose the sample from the alley in his incompetence. No more bodies had turned up, but John suspected that might have something to do with the fact that he hadn’t actually had to feed since Sherlock. Usually he fed every two or three days, but it had been eight since that night. He had no idea why the detective’s blood was different, only that it was something that he’d been aching to taste again since that first drop, and he couldn’t risk hurting Sherlock again if he got hungry.

So after Sherlock had eaten a small meal, and they’d both had a cup of tea, John stood and put on his coat, pocketed his phone and keys, and headed for the door, determined to get back to his old routine.

“Where are you going?”

John spun on his heel at the voice, surprised that Sherlock had even noticed him try to leave. It usually took him at least an hour before his phone pinged with a text. He watched as Sherlock stood from his chair, walked towards him and stood close enough for John to smell the tea he’d just drank on his breath.

“I... erm... I’m just popping out for a bit. I won’t be long. Do you... need anything?” he stammered, mentally slapping himself for not being able to articulate when it ws obvious what he was doing.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, and his jaw clenched. “You’re going out to feed. Why?”

John flushed at Sherlock’s words. He didn’t know why, it had never bothered him before. Only, after what had happened, he supposed it felt more intimate now than it had.

“I need to, Sherlock. You know that.”

“Yes,” John knew that look, the look that Sherlock usually reserved for crime scenes and witnesses. It was a lot more intimidating when it was directed at him. “But you haven’t been out for the last week, and you used to go out every two or three days, so I’d assumed you’d found another source of food, blood bags maybe. But if you had, surely you’d have more than a week’s worth, and wouldn’t need to go out for it. So it’s something else then.”

“Sherlock, please...”

“How do you do it, John?” Sherlock’s voice was tinged with what sounded like jealousy to John, but that couldn’t be right, surely.

“Do what?”

“How do you choose your victim?” John recoiled at the word. If Sherlock noticed, he didn't say anything. “Do you stalk them, or do you flirt, buy them a drink first?”

“Sherlock, what the hell has got into you? Why do you want to know?”

Sherlock’s back straightened defensively. “Curiosity,” he muttered unconvincingly.

John took a step towards the detective, dark eyes boring into Sherlock’s. He could feel his anger now, simmering just below the surface. He lowered his voice to an almost growl, done with Sherlock’s petulance, and repeated, “Why do you want to know?”

Sherlock swallowed, his head lifting defiantly. He took a breath, another, then exhaled slowly. “Why haven’t you asked me?”

John honestly didn’t understand what Sherlock meant, and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the confused look on his face.

“If you need to feed, why haven’t you asked me? It would be more convenient, you wouldn’t have to go out and find some random person to...” Sherlock seemed to be having trouble finding the right words, so he sighed tiredly and turned around, only for John to reach out for his arm.

His anger dissipated in seconds at the tone of Sherlock’s voice, the defeated slump of his shoulders. “Are you... are you offering to...?”

Sherlock took a slow, shuddering breath, and turned back, refusing to meet John’s eyes. “I don’t know. I suppose I was just curious as to why you never seemed to consider me as a viable option.”

John laughed incredulously, startling Sherlock into looking up at him in consternation. “I don’t see anything funny about this, John.”

With a shake of his head, John huffed a breath through his nose and his lips tightened in a grim smile. “Neither do I. In fact, it’s been a little more than distracting thinking about how close you are, how easy it would be.” His fingers relinquished their firm grip on Sherlock’s wrist and fell to his side, nails digging painfully into his palm. “But I can’t, Sherlock. I can’t risk hurting you again.”

“Distracting?” Sherlock breathed, his eyes focussed on the white fingerprints that John had left around his wrist. He hadn’t realised that John had been holding on so tightly.

John’s words came a little faster, a little harder. “Yes. There’s a reason I almost killed you that night, Sherlock. I had no control over myself, I almost didn’t stop. And the only reason I did was because... _fuck_ , I can’t do this now.”

He turned to leave, and this time it was Sherlock who reached out.

“Why did you?”

Sherlock didn’t have to explain what he meant.

Shame flickered over John’s face, and Sherlock almost regretted asking. When he finally spoke, it was with words tinged with guilt. “I stopped, because I was worried I’d never have you again. Not because I almost killed you, not because I love you, but because I didn’t want to lose you. I couldn’t bear the thought of never being able to taste you again. It was purely selfish. Because I am what I am. A monster.”

Sherlock seemed to have stopped breathing, and John stood still, waiting for some kind of retaliation on Sherlock’s part. A punch to the face. A snide comment. Anything but the crash of a firm, warm body pushing him backwards into the wall, and the press of cool, dry lips against his own.

John fell into the kiss with a groan, his tongue darting out to gently swipe across Sherlock’s plush bottom lip, before pressing into his mouth and seeking Sherlock’s own. Long, dexterous fingers swept up his sides and down his arms, tangled with his, and then Sherlock was guiding his hands above his head and holding them there firmly.

John growled at the unexpected display of dominance and pressed his hips forwards, pushing the hard line of his cock against Sherlock’s. The detective whimpered and pushed back, and John used his strength to spin them around, breaking the kiss and slamming Sherlock back against the wall hard enough to make the doors rattle on their hinges. A hand rose to Sherlock’s jaw and tilted his head back, and John was graced by the sight of Sherlock’s endlessly pale throat. He leaned in and licked over the sensitive spot below Sherlock’s ear, his thumb pressing over the pulse point on Sherlock’s neck, and he smiled against blood warm skin when he felt the pulse spike under his touch.

Sherlock shivered under the onslaught of John’s tongue and lips, tearing a high pitched whimper from his throat and eliciting goosebumps all over his skin. His breath stuttered as he felt the graze of sharp fangs against his neck, and he closed his eyes with a groan of “Yes.”

John pulled back, eyes dark and fangs bared, and he gripped Sherlock’s jaw gently, pulling his face down until blown pupils met his own.

“Tell me this is what you want,” he rasped, his voice a touch deeper than normal. “Tell me that it’s not just the blood, that it’s really you, and I’ll give you anything I can. Please, Sherlock, tell me.”

Sherlock stared down into the deep black of John’s eyes with complete sincerity and utter trust when he whispered, “I want everything you’ll give me, John. Everything.”

There was a moment when the air seemed to crackle in the small living room of 221b, and then John’s lips were back on Sherlock’s with bruising force. Small, strong hands gripped and lifted Sherlock’s legs to wrap around John’s waist, and Sherlock gasped at John’s compact strength as he was carried to his bedroom, then thrown down onto the soft cushion of the bed covers.

John turned and shut the door, pulling off his coat and throwing it over the chair in the corner of the room, before kicking off his shoes and socks. He gestured for Sherlock to do the same, and walked slowly towards the bed, fingers deftly unbuttoning the shirt as he went. When all the buttons were undone, he shrugged the soft cotton from his shoulders, and watched hungrily as Sherlock mirrored him, the fine, purple silk sliding from perfect alabaster skin and falling to the floor.

Standing at the foot of the bed, eyes lingering on the new expanse of bared skin, John moved his hands down to the buttons of his jeans. He popped the first one open with a smirk, waiting for Sherlock to do the same with his own tailored trousers, and then pulled at the rest until they came free, watching Sherlock hesitate and pop the rest open much quicker, reluctant to ruin the expensive garment.

John chuckled and slid his hands into the line of his waistband and boxers, and pushed. Sherlock’s eyes fell immediately to the flushed, leaking head of John’s cock, and he swallowed down a moan as he kicked off the rest of his armor, and bared himself fully to John with a blush.

John’s eyes seemed to turn impossibly darker as they took in every inch of skin that was available to him, his tongue running over his fangs as he fought down the urge to _take, claim, bite_. Everything in him was screaming to pounce, but the vulnerability and trust in Sherlock’s eyes brought him back to himself, and he took a deliberate, slow breath before climbing onto the bed and settling on top of Sherlock, knees bracketing Sherlock’s thighs and Sherlock’s cock nestled in the crease of his arse.

Sherlock looked down to the line of John’s parted lips, to the tips of two sharp, white canines just visible from the angle of John’s face above his own, and he tilted his head up, closing the small gap between them and swiping his tongue along John’s bottom lip. His hips shifted of their own volition and he cried out as his cock was pushed further into the cool skin of John’s arse, the slide made easier by the precome that was now leaking profusley from the tip.

John grunted at the sensation as the head of Sherlock’s cock rubbed over his hole, and he pressed down, earning a sharp gasp and another involuntary thrust from Sherlock.

“Oh fuck, John, I don’t...” Sherlock mumbled into John’s mouth, unable to catch his breath as the whirlwind of sensations bombarded him. John’s eyes filled with concern, and he lifted his head, forcing himself to cease his movements, to be ready to stop if that’s what Sherlock wanted.

“Sherlock, we don’t have to do this, I know it’s fast...”

Sherlock’s expression turned into one of exasperation, and he rolled his eyes. “Don’t be tiresome, John, I’m not some blushing virgin,” he lied, the acrimony lost in the shaky cadence of his voice. “I just don’t want to come this way. I want you inside me.”

John’s breathing staggered on a deep inhale, and he lowered his lips to Sherlock’s neck again, pressing kisses along the endless expanse and nibbling the pulse point. When he reached the lobe of his ear, he pulled off with a whisper of, “Are you sure?”

His answer came in the form of a slow thrust of Sherlock’s hips, and a deep, throaty groan of, “Fuck me, John.”

“God, yes,” John rasped as he pulled himself up to straddle Sherlock’s thighs. “Do you have lube in here?”

A faint blush started to creep it’s way up Sherlock’s neck, and John smiled as he reached out to pull the drawer of the bedside cabinet open. The smile grew wider when his fingers curled around an oddly shaped bottle, exposing his fangs fully and John’s breath caught when he felt Sherlock’s cock twitch against his skin.

“I think,” John whispered, unclasping the bottle lid and squeezing some of the silky liquid into his palm, “that someone might have developed a slight fetish...”

The blush deepened instantly and Sherlock’s eyes widened, his gaze going straight to the flash of sharp canines as John spoke.

John shuffled down Sherlock’s legs, hooking his fingers under the back of Sherlock’s right knee and lifting it over his left shoulder. Sherlock’s breathing quickened as more of him was exposed to John’s ministrations, and when John swiped a lubed fingertip from the tip of Sherlock’s cock down to the base, then over his perineum and arsehole and _pressed in_ just a little, Sherlock gasped, his grip on the high thread count sheets turning his knuckles white.

John’s finger stilled when muscles clenched hard around the intrusion, and he used his thumb to gently stroke the soft skin of Sherlock’s perineum. Sherlock’s cock lay hard and leaking against his belly, and John couldn’t resist leaning forwards to lick at the growing puddle near Sherlock’s naval.

A sharp keen was pulled from Sherlock’s lips when the movement pushed John deeper, and John took the tip of Sherlock’s cock into his mouth, pressing further in, gentle but insistent. The rapid rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest as John lowered his mouth down was distracting, and John raised a hand to place firmly on Sherlock’s lower abdomen, pressing down to hold Sherlock in place and stop the man from bucking up into John’s mouth.

When Sherlock’s breathing had calmed slightly, and John’s finger was as deep as it could go, he started to pull back, his breath catching at the clench of muscles he knew he’d be feeling around his cock soon enough. He started to thrust in and out gently, allowing Sherlock’s body to acclimate to the unfamiliar sensation, and when he felt the muscles start to loosen, he tentatively pressed a second finger alongside the first.

“Ah, oh God,” Sherlock breathed, the stretch a confusing cross between pleasure and pain. John’s mouth descended again, taking Sherlock’s cock down to the base, the slight scrape of fangs on such sensitive skin making Sherlock’s head swim with excitement. He felt John’s throat contract around the sensitive skin of his frenulum, a third finger breaching him, and then John was _swallowing_ around him, fangs sinking just a fraction into delicate skin. Sherlock cried out as stars exploded in his mind, his orgasm hitting him fast and sharp, and he swore he blacked out for a moment, his awareness coming back when he felt John suckling gently at the base of his cock.

Long fingers reached to stroke through greying strands, and John pulled away, letting Sherlock’s half hard cock slide from his mouth with a wet pop. He smiled up at Sherlock, lips red with blood and eyes glazed with satisfaction, and he leaned forwards to take Sherlock’s mouth in a messy kiss. Sherlock groaned at the taste of blood on John’s tongue, the feel of it as it transferred to his own skin, and only when John finally pulled back did he realise why there was blood on John’s lips.

“Did you just... bite me?” Sherlock asked breathlessly, his heart pounding in his ears and his vision blurring as his pupils dilated, making his pale eyes seem almost black.

John’s tongue flicked out to run over blood tinged teeth, and his smile darkened. “I thought that was the point of all this,” he murmured, his voice deeper than usual under the influence of Sherlock’s blood.

“Not the area I had in mind,” Sherlock muttered incredulously, his head falling back to hit the pillow.

“You seemed to enjoy it,” John smirked, raising an eyebrow and trailing a finger along the underside of Sherlock’s cock, already hardening again with the attention.

Sherlock huffed a laugh and lifted his hands to rub over his face, still trying to catch his breath. “I wasn’t disputing that.”

When he looked back down, John’s eyes were sparkling in the moonlight streaming through the curtains like midnight stars, and Sherlock’s breath caught at the beauty of him like this. He was still his John, but so much more, and Sherlock wanted to explore the other side of him more than anything.

Hands reaching out, Sherlock pulled John back up his body enough to press their lips together again, and Sherlock mewled when John’s teeth clamped down on his bottom lip, drawing a drop of blood to the surface.

John groaned, suckling until the tiny wound closed, and pulled back with his eyes closed, savouring the taste like the finest of wines.

“You have no idea, do you,” he rumbled, his voice so low Sherlock could almost feel it vibrating through him. “How you taste. What you do to me. _God_ , Sherlock. You are exquisite.”

Sherlock’s breath stuttered, and he flushed at the words. His head felt light, almost like he was slightly tipsy, and he smiled and reached between the both of them, hand finding John’s neglected cock and giving it a firm stroke. He swallowed down the twinge of anxiety when he struggled to close his fingers around the girth; John was huge, and contrary to his earlier words, he really was a virgin.

Summoning his courage, and appeasing the part of his mind that wanted nothing more than to please John, Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s throat and murmured in his deep baritone, “I thought you were going to fuck me, John.”

John’s cock twitched in Sherlock’s fingers, and small but strong hands gripped Sherlock’s hips and twisted, flipping the detective over onto his stomach. John’s grip tightened and pulled, lifting Sherlock to his hands and knees, with John kneeling behind him. Those same fingers lowered to his arse, spreading him open and Sherlock almost choked when he felt the swipe of John’s tongue as it lapped over his already stretched hole, teasing the sensitive skin and pushing inside easily.

“ _Fucking Christ_ ,” Sherlock swore, his arms giving out beneath him, sending his face into the pillow and John’s tongue deeper. He heard John growl behind him, felt the rumble of it against his skin and he made a high keening noise, glad that the pillow seemed to muffle most of the embarrassing sounds he was making. He felt himself get close to the edge again, and he pulled away, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves as he felt his hole contract around nothing.

“Please, John. I need it, please.”

Cool skin pressed along the length of his sweat slicked back, and John’s voice was broken when he said, “What do you need, Sherlock?”

Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath. “I need you to fuck me, please.”

With a guttural growl, John moved back to kneel behind Sherlock. He felt around the bed for the lube, finding it near Sherlock’s feet, and poured a generous amount into the palm of his hand. He started stroking himself then, his hand working the slick liquid over his cock efficiently while the other moved to part Sherlock’s cheeks, holding him open before resting the blunt head of his cock against the loosened hole. With the slightest pressure, he started to push in, muscles trembling as he tried not to give in to the urge to thrust home in one go. He kept a steady rhythm, thrusting in and out just a fraction until he felt the muscles give around him, and the head of his cock pushed past the first ring with a cry of pain from Sherlock.

John stilled his movements, the fear of hurting Sherlock helping to control the urge to dominate, and he stroked fingers soothingly down Sherlock’s back, whispering shakily, “Are you okay?”

A fresh sheen of sweat had covered Sherlock’s back now, and the soft sound of panting filled the room. After a moment, Sherlock lifted his head, surprising John with breathy laugh.

“I’m fine, I just wasn’t expecting... _Jesus_ , you feel much bigger than I’d anticipated.”

John laughed back, his hand stilling at the small of Sherlock’s back. “Can I move? Or do you need a minute?”

“Move, John, please,” Sherlock muttered. _Fuck_ , John was only an inch into him and already Sherlock felt like he was being split in two. He held on tightly to the spark of excitement that thought elicited.

John’s knees shifted slightly on the bed and he pulled out just a little, before his hands found their way to Sherlock’s thighs and he pulled Sherlock back as he pushed forward. Sherlock’s mouth fell open in a silent scream as John pushed in to the hilt in one smooth glide, and John grunted like he’d been kicked in the ribs as the base of his cock hit the furred skin of Sherlock’s arse. Sherlock’s body clamped down hard around him, breath short and sharp and fingers white against the sheets where they gripped the soft cotton.

“ _Fuck..._ ” Sherlock whispered brokenly, his legs shaking as they tried to hold him up. John’s arms wrapped around his waist and pulled Sherlock up, just enough for Sherlock to grip the headboard, and when John felt he was steady, he pulled out, and slid back in so slowly that Sherlock could feel every inch of his cock as it pressed in. A gasp behind Sherlock made him turn his head to look behind, and in the periphery of his vision he could see John staring down to where they were joined, watching with rapt fascination as he slowly disappeared into Sherlock’s body.

Cool hands slid down Sherlock’s sides, and with a small nod of consent from Sherlock, John grinned, pulled out, and pushed back in with such force that Sherlock’s sweat slicked palms almost lost their grip. His moans were loud in the small room as John started to thrust mercilessly, fingertips digging painfully into Sherlock’s hips, capillaries breaking under the skin and leaving bruises that Sherlock would cherish for days afterwards.

“Jesus fuck, Sherlock,” John growled, head tilted back as his hips thrust brutally against Sherlock’s arse. “Perfect, that’s what you are,” _thrust_  “utter...” _thrust_  “fucking...” _thrust_ “perfection.”

Sherlock was panting beneath him, unable to speak, to think anything past the litany of _John, John, John_ like a prayer in his mind. His grip was slipping, and he tried to push himself higher, only to have John pull him up so he was sitting on John’s thighs, back flat against John’s chest, and when the angle of his hips changed and John’s cock hit something inside of him that felt like an electric current running through his nerves, Sherlock cried out, back arching against the tanned skin of John’s chest, cool skin soothing his own.

The beginnings of a powerful orgasm started to burn hot low in his abdomen, and his panting was replaced by whimpers when John started to lift Sherlock up, slamming him back down and hitting the right spot every other thrust. His own cock was red and leaking clear precome that dripped steadily onto the bedding, and Sherlock was about to reach for it when he felt John’s calloused fingers entwine with his, pulling them firmly against Sherlock’s hips and resuming his relentlessly pounding into Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock whined pitifully as he was denied the friction he was desperate for, and his thighs burned from the constant movement. A bead of sweat rolled down and dripped into his eyes, and he blinked it away, stuttering, “ _John... please, J-John_.”

Soft lips pressed against his humid skin, and he shivered when John’s cool tongue licked its way from his clavicle to the sensitive spot behind his ear, teasing at the lobe before taking it into his mouth and nibbling lightly. Sherlock groaned and let his head fall back onto John’s shoulder, and John’s lips moved lower, teeth grazing the skin and sending shivers down Sherlock’s spine.

There was a light pressure on his neck, and the swipe of a tongue as it lapped and then lips were sucking, pulling the blood to the surface but not breaking the skin. Sherlock held his breath, memorizing the feel of John’s lips, his tongue, and then fangs pressed gently against his throat, not hard enough to pierce, but enough for Sherlock’s pulse to quicken with the promise of John’s bite.

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, the word broken by John’s rough thrusts as he continued to pull Sherlock down onto his cock. The pressure continued to build as John’s movements became more and more erratic, and finally, _finally_ something gave, and Sherlock felt the exquisite slide of sharp fangs through the delicate skin of his throat. John slid in with one last thrust, and Sherlock felt him swell as he spilled deep inside him, pushing Sherlock over the edge completely untouched. Thick ropes of ejaculate hit his chest, and Sherlock screamed as the world fell away, nothing left but himself and John. There was a growl against his neck, and he shivered at the vibration along his skin as his overstimulated muscles contracted around John’s cock, milking every last drop from his body. The hands on his hips released his own and slid up his body to wrap around his waist, fingers stroking over the prominent ribs. John continued to suckle, soft lips moving against his neck, and Sherlock sighed when he felt the teeth in his neck withdraw.

Their panting breaths were loud in the silence of the room, and neither of them attempted to move for a few moments, other than the gentle swipe of John’s tongue over the two small wounds on Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock relaxed against John’s chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat and storing the events of the night in the room labeled simply 'John’ in his Mind Palace, although he was fairly certain he’d have to expand it to a full wing soon enough.

Sherlock heard John’s breath catch behind him as he slipped out of Sherlock’s body, and Sherlock squirmed at the uncomfortable sensation. It almost felt as though John was still inside him, and he savoured the feeling while it lasted.

The sky was starting to lighten outside, casting the room in a faint orange glow as a gentle breeze parted the curtains. The bed covers were in disarray, the quilt on the floor at the end of the bed and the sheets bunched up under Sherlock’s knees. The air was filled with the thick scent of sex, sweat and blood, and goosebumps spread over Sherlock’s body as the breeze reached him, sweat cooling on his skin and making him shiver in John’s arms.

“Are you okay?” John mumbled against his neck, his lips refusing to break the contact.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, held it for a moment, and exhaled shakily. “Hmmm, I think so. That was...”

“Extraordinary,” John finished, pressing a chaste kiss to the new scar on Sherlock’s throat.

Sherlock smiled and huffed a laugh, unwilling to move his head from John’s shoulder, even though his neck was beginning to cramp from being tilted back for so long. “I was going to say ‘an experience,’ but yes, extraordinary works too. Quite extraordinary.”

It was John’s turn to smile at the familiar words he’d uttered to Sherlock the night they met, after Sherlock’s deduction in the cab. “I suppose I should pick up a thesaurus once in a while. It seems that I’m repeating myself,” he sighed lazily, lifting Sherlock from his thighs to lay them both down on the bed, his chest to Sherlock’s back. He wrapped his arms around Sherlocks middle and burrowed his head in the nape of Sherlock’s neck, inhaling deeply.

“You smell fucking _decadent,_ ” he breathed, pressing the length of his body along Sherlock’s as tight as he could. Sherlock almost melted into the contact, a sound not unlike a purr emanating from his throat.

“I smell like sweat and sex,” Sherlock said, the words coming out slurred as he tried to keep his eyes open.

“Like I said...”

“We need a shower.”

“In the morning,” John grumbled sleepily, his grip tightening, keeping Sherlock from trying to leave.

“It is morning, John.”

“Mmm, then in the afternoon.”

Sherlock grunted in agreeance, his eyes falling closed. “Mmn, in the afternoon.”


End file.
